Beautiful Dirt
by child-prey
Summary: This is a story mainly concentrating on Hwoarangs' life from the 'death' of Baek Doo San, to the present, Tekken 5 era and when Baek returns. There will be some BaekHwoarang slash in later chapters Anyway...do tell me if I should bother carrying on.
1. Chapter 1

"Fuck!"

The red head muttered into the air as his master flung his young body onto the ground. The pain vibrated through his back and spine instantly, causing the teen to curse his master again.

"What was the fucking point in that, Baek?" Hwoarang hissed as he crawled to his knees, wincing insanely at the spread of the pain. The black eyed Korean smiled at him as he began fiddling with the belt of his gee, his eyes glued to his young student.  
"I told you to be on your guard. You weren't."

"So you decided that breaking my back would make me be on my guard?" The younger man made sure that the emphasis he placed in his tone and actions were dramatic and effective, attempting to make his master feel guilty for lunging him onto the floor without a warning.

"I'm sure it's not even bruised," Baek muttered under his breath, flinging his black cotton belt onto the floor.

Hwoarang raised his arms into the air, then pointed to the ground. "Hello, Baek, ground," the older man just laughed, taking off his top and throwing it onto the floor alongside the belt, revealing his carefully carved bare chest.

Hwoarang's cheeks turned an unusual tint of red.

"Come here the, let me take a look at it." Hwoarang obeyed his orders coyly, walking over to Baek and turning around so his back was to the older man.

He closed his almond eyes and parted his lips as he felt the delicate, slender fingers of his mentor caress his back. He felt Baek's index finger dance down the curve of his spine while the older Korean's free hand caressed his side lovingly.

"See, not even a bruise," Baek whispered sensually into Hwoarang's ear, both of his palms on either side of the red head's perfectly slim waist.

"Don't do this to me, Baek, you'll kill me, you know," Hwoarang breathed out, twisting his body around and completely forgetting the pain, wrapping his muscular arms around his master's waist. The older man laughed, loving it when his pupil blushed from the sexual frustration clearly seen in his eyes.

"I was just seeing you were all right. You were complaining that I hurt you so I thought I'd make it up," Hwoarang groaned, pressing his forehead to Baek's smaller form.

He remembered the first time he'd kissed Baek, how the older man reacted, and how scared Hwoarang was, believing he had ruined their relationship, that perfect student/mentor relationship... but then Baek spoke to him. And words turned into actions.

Hwoarang had come to love Baek in a way which was far more intense than just as a master.

"Come to the apartment, Baek?" he whispered to the slim man, his arms around Baek in such a way, it made the South Korean hate his commitments.

"I have to teach, Hwoarang," the older man groaned, pushing the redhead away gently. "Come, please. You'll be my muse," Baek said with a sarcastic laugh as the younger Korean slipped out of his jacket, shaking his head.

"I'll just get jealous, watching you helping all those others."

Baek laughed, getting a clean jacket from his bag. "None of them will ever match up to you. Ever," he paused, his voice fading as his and Hwoarang's eyes seemed to burn each other. "Are you going out with your little friends tonight?"

The younger man shrugged. "I have to, I suppose. I haven't seen them in nearly a week. But you should come," his comment met Baek's smirking face, as he pushed his toned arms into the sleeves again.

"Oh? And watch them all trying to fling themselves at you? I don't think an old man like me can handle it." Hwoarang laughed, shaking his head.

"Does the fact that I don't return any of their affection not matter to you?"

Baek picked up the bag, walking towards Hwoarang and placing a swift kiss on his lips. "No. I'll see you later, ok? Don't be too late."

* * *

Baek waved unenthusiastically at the last of the students to leave his dojo, then turning his attention back to the mirrors all around him, doing his own perfectly practised exercises to finish off the night. A habit. Something the young redhead never understood. When the lesson had finished, Hwoarang would usually collapse onto the floor or strip, but Baek always had to finish of with this last sequence.

He smiled at the dozen reflections of himself, remembering that when he was Hwoarang's age, all he wanted was this damn dojo. And he had it now. As an old man.

He had come to be quite humiliated of his age, completely ignoring the familiar sayings of life begins at forty and growing old gracefully. Because Hwoarang was so young, he almost felt like he had to change to keep the boy interested. But Hwoarang always reassured him that he didn't. And Baek believed him of course.

But his paranoia was still there. It was natural, a paranoia that most lovers feel when their significant other is constantly being ogled over by younger, more attractive (at least that's what Baek Doo San believed) individuals.

The Korean martial artist reached for his bag, taking out his shirt and noticing that a photograph had fallen out with the actual piece of clothing. He smiled without even noticing that he did so, running his thumb down the old, almost sepia coloured paper.

It was only 18 years old. Not that long ago really. The face stared back at him, smiling, her eyes large and almost black, her perfect face so similar to her child's.

"Jung," he whispered her name to no one in particular, wondering what she would do if she found out that her child was currently the lover of the man whom she trusted with his life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, but still smiling. "But I love him. Is that not what you asked of me, to show him love?"

He remembered how she turned up at his house one night, her hair knotted and her face streaked with tears, and that red haired bundle in her arms.

She made him promise to look after the child, saying she could not, she simply could not ruin his life. He was fathered by a European, who had higher connections with people of importance than she'd originally thought. And she simply couldn't risk the boys life.

Jung had been Baek's lover in college. It was the perfect young relationship, passionate and fulfilling but neither felt more for each other, other than deep respect. She made Baek promise that he'd live as a friend to the child, rather than a father. He already had one father and did not need another.

Perhaps that was why Baek had allowed himself to love Hwoarang in such an intense way. And when Hwoarang had kissed him that time, instead of going along with his natural sensations which were telling him to do exactly that and react, he had to make sure you young boy didn't see him as a father-figure first.

That would not of been Jung's wishes.

A loud slam returned him to reality again, making his thoughts drift away into thin air.

He turned his body towards the door of the dojo, the sight meeting him so grotesque, the picture fell to the ground in an instant. He attempted his best to meet this man in a threatening fighting stance, but those attempts were in vain...

Hwoarang blew out the cigarette smoke in a large hoop, watching it disintegrate into the night's air. His thoughts were cloudy, wanting to be with Baek but he'd promised them that he'd stay. He leaned on his bike, occasionally shooting Kim and MingHo a look of approval to make sure that they fought properly. He had decided that he really should of gone to the lessons tonight, show those kiddies off as he and Baek danced together in a macabre sequence. He looked at his watch.

* * *

Too late, he couldn't make the excuse now, they knew when he had practise.

"Hwoarang," the red head turned to the person who called his name.

"What?" He said unenthusiastically, noticing that Gaidu had made her reappearance. She ran up until her smaller, panting form was only centimetres away from his.

"Some guy wants to have a fight with you. He's been looking for you, apparently."  
A smile finally exploded over the redhead's thin lips. He spat the dangling cigarette from his mouth, patting the girl on her back. "Now that's some good news, Gaidu! Where is he? It's about time this night picked up!"

She shook Hwoarang off her, realising that he hadn't yet seen this guy. "I wouldn't be so excited if I were you, Hwoarang. He looks like quite a strong guy and he's got bodyguards and everything." Hwoarang smirked, pulling her closer, mockingly.

"So have I, and I've beaten big guys before, you know that." She nodded, reluctantly.

"That's a good thing then. They said they'll be here in about, uh," she looked at her watch, then back at the Korean. "Twenty minutes."

The red head's cheeks flushed with excitement as he began to tighten his gloves and slid the goggles further up his head. He began a stretch as Gaidu explained to the other two what was going on. They both cheered on the red head, who turned his body mid-kick and stuck out his tongue as well as doing the enthusiastic horns to the men.

Twenty minutes past, exactly.

And as soon as Hwoarang lowered his leg from a spinning kick, he noticed that a communion of men had stood before him, with his three companions looking at them curiously. Hwoarang's lips stretched into a smile as his eyes fell in-between the figure in the middle of all of the men. The guy was about his age, dressed in black gee pants with a blue flame going up them, which Hwoarang found quite stupid so he couldn't help but smile. His body was big, as Gaidu had put it, a lot muscular that Hwoarang's own. His hair was styled in a large, messy spike, and his eyes had a certain intimidation which made Hwoarang avoid them. he was obviously Japanese.

And obviously was here with his tutor, who Hwoarang noticed was a wrinkly old man with a fondness for fur.

Hwoarang instantly didn't like him.

"How much are you betting?" Hwoarang called out, confidently, taking a step forward, only to have the dozen bodyguards step up to him but the boy and his tutor remain in the same position. He spoke in English, the only language he knew the basic of other than Korean, and what Baek had always told him to use when in doubt.

He wasn't at all intimidated by the black suits, smiling mockingly at them and turning to the Japanese boy once again for an answer. "So?"

The old man stepped forward, his little friends instantly stepping back by the younger man. He approached the redhead confidently and stuck out his hand. "I am not arranging it for money. It is a test. For him," he motioned to the young Japanese man, who Hwoarang turned to in a natural reaction. He then smirked as he went over the older man's words.

"Well, I only fight for money. 500? A 1000?" He noticed from the corner of his eye that MingHo bit his lip. They never usually bet on a 1000 that fast. It would build up. But these guys did look pretty loaded.

"Fine. 5000. Dollars." Hwoarang raised an eye brow and smiled, satisfied.

"Right. Get your boy up here then, time is money."

He loved the way the old man frowned and his confidence, and even more as the younger boy walked almost coyly towards him. "What's your name?" The red head asked confidently, tightening his gloves again as he stood opposite the Japanese man.

"Kazama Jin."

"So Jin then? I'm Hwoarang. Thought you should know the name of the guy you lose 5000 to." Jin avoided his gaze, his hands clenched in a fist and resting just a little lower of his hips. Hwoarang was disappointed to see no reaction.

"I know. You're meant to be the best Tae Kwon Do artist in South Korea." Hwoarang blushed to this comment, getting himself in a familiar fighting stance and shaking his head.

"No, you're thinking of my tutor, Baek Doo San."

"Right. Ten minutes, begin now," Kim shouted to the surprise of the Japanese gang, who were ready to protest, but the old man held them back with a simple raising of his hand. Hwoarang began a gentle bouncing, circling Kazama as the muscular man did the same thing to him. He finally approached the Japanese man with a forward kick, which Jin caught in his hands and flipped Hwoarang back.

The red head looked up at him, not quite expecting that. He swept his legs swiftly along the ground, making Kazama fall as he got up to his confident position again. But Jin was quick to respond. He was on his feet again, and before Hwoarang realised it, thrusting his head into Hwoarang's with a menacing head-butt. He had surely underestimated the guy with the blue flame on his pants...

The Korean fell back, utterly exhausted. His eyes burned bitterly into the form which collapsed for rest opposite him.

Jin was instantly scooped up by his mentor, who hissed in his ears, which Hwoarang had worked out was about the battle.

He was humiliated as he rose to his feet again, walking quickly to a wall with his head hung and a rage in his dark eyes. He released a short scream and punched his clenched fist into a wall, turning to see the old man standing behind him.

"Here is your 5000," he said in a low, husky and irritated voice, offering Hwoarang the carefully folded notes.

"I don't want it," the redhead roared. "I lost," he hissed in a low whisper, turning to Kazama, who had his head hung in an equal shame.

"It was a draw," the old man corrected, offering Hwoarang the money again.

"No!" He hissed, this offering making him feel even more ashamed.

"Hwoarang," a soft voice came from his opposite side, preventing him or the old man from saying another word. "What?" he barked, turning around and moaning  
unhappily. "What the fuck have I done now? Drinking in the fucking streets? If you're going to arrest me for fighting or whatever shit you guys want me for, do it now before I get pissed off."

He stuck out his hands mockingly to the police men, who now knew him by first name having him been a regular contender for the offence of street fighting.

Unfortunately for Hwoarang, they didn't take his wrists. Both, in fact, looked quite unhappy about approaching him.

"It's not that, Hwoarang. I'm afraid something has happened to Mr. Doo San."

Hwoarang's eyes suddenly lost all anger and simply grew concerned as he seemed to forget everything that had just happened and began following the police men.

"What? Baek? Is he all right?"

The police men looked at each other, a look which Hwoarang came to hate instantly.

"What's happened to him?" he breathed out faintly, almost not wanting to hear the news.

"I'm afraid Baek is dead, Hwoarang."

Time seemed to freeze for the Korean martial artist. His throat went dry and his mind and senses went numb, until the realisation hit him and he collapsed in a heap into the older police man's arms.

"you're lying!" he sobbed, unstoppably as the two men began to carry his distraught form to the car.

* * *

He sat on the floor of the apartment exactly twenty four hours after. His face was stained with dried tears, flaky and crumbling of whenever he wiped his face. He couldn't cry any more, his body simply didn't allow it.

He had held Baek's body as they took him to hospital. He held it, feeling no life in him. He was so hideously mutilated, but it was still his Baek. Until they took him away at least.

The funeral was to be as soon as possible, two days away as the coroners had to do more examinations on him. His death was an unnatural cause, a brutal murder and mutilation.

They wouldn't let him stay with Baek for longer than an hour, saying that the evidence needed to be taken quickly and the body would begin to rot.

He didn't care.

He needed to stay with Baek.

The police gave him a lift to his apartment six hours after the accident, telling him there was absolutely no way he was allowed to stay with Baek now. They also questioned him, too, but surprisingly never once raising the accusing tone. They said that whoever did this must of hated Baek with a passion, as the killing was merciless.

Merciless.

All Hwoarang could think of was the pain which was inflicted on Baek. His lover. His master.


	2. Chapter 2

The young Korean had passed out from exhaustion, waking only at the sound of a banging coming from his door. He opened his eyes, feeling the dried tears on his cheeks instantly and felt the void, the emptiness return to his heart. Yet, despite that, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled towards the door.

"Yeah?" He said in just above a whisper as he slid the door open and was greeted by a large man in a suit. He raised an eyebrow, wondering why the hell someone who looked like a member of the M.I.B. was at his doorstep.

"Police?" He questioned the man, who shook his head and gave Hwoarang a white envelope.

"Give this to Baek Doo San. It is an invitation to The King Of The Iron First Tournament 3." Hwoarang tried hard to push back his tears, but his eyes were already producing them.

"Baek is dead," he choked out, realising that the man produced no reaction. "I am his pupil," he said quietly, to which the man shrugged.

"Then you should take his place."

And without another word, he was gone.

* * *

Hwoarang took a long drag of the cigarette as he opened the envelope, taking out the contents with his free hand. He folded out the letter, which he found contained an airline ticket to Mexico National Airport and a short letter, written in very bad Korean, but it seemed clear anyway.

'You are invited to the Tekken Iron Fist 3 Tournament. Please Arrive at the Mexico Airport with your belonging and you shall be taken care of.'

Taken care of.

Hwoarang didn't quite trust the sound of that, but he couldn't help a small smile stretching his lips either. Baek had spoken of this so often, and with every word, Hwoarang wanted the experience for himself. He decided to take the only thing he really needed, his Tae kwon do gee.

When Hwoarang boarded the plane, he rested his head against the soft pillow of the seat. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept returning to Baek. But now, he didn't push them away. He wanted to think of Baek, and to remember Baek's touches, his hands, his eyes. He wouldn't allow himself to weep anymore. He remembered something Baek had told him once, when he was holding him, and kissing his lips after one of their first few nights together.

'If anything ever happens to me-'

'It won't.' He interrupted with such arrogance of a teen, to which Baek merely chuckled, not quite releasing a sound, a mere movement of his shoulders.

'Optimistic aren't we? But seriously, Hwoarang, if it does. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life regretting one thing or another, continue this,' Hwoarang interrupted him with a gentle laugh as he rose to his elbows.

'Sleeping with your corpse?' A soft smile hovered over Baek's lips.

'This person you are now, continue being him. You're a wonderful fighter, Hwoarang, don't waste that on some idiot, especially if the idiot is me.'

"Don't waste it," Hwoarang repeated, as if the words were spoken by Baek himself.

The person who popped into his mind appeared there quicker than lightening. And his distinguishing features didn't make Hwoarang doubt the identity of that person for a moment. Dark, thick eyebrows, nervous yet confident eyes. The only man he was every unable to beat.

"Kazama Jin," Hwoarang whispered faintly, allowing his index finger to travel down the middle of the window on the place. He created a separation as the steam had built up on it. "He'll be there," he whispered again, this time drawing a cross from the other side, now making four squares.

Hwoarang's eyebrows suddenly knotted at the thought of reality. But of course Kazama had to be there. If Hwoarang's own reputation was as the best martial artist in Korea, then Kazama had to be one of the best in Japan. Unless the Japanese were supermen, which Hwoarang truly doubted. Plus, 'the test,' other than a fighting tournament, what could the old man of been preparing him for? And he had that look. That bad-ass, look-at-me-wrong-and-ill-shove-a-fist-up-your-ass-look, a look which deserved a place at such a tournament. Hwoarang smirked, maybe the old man would be there.

His smirk faded as quickly as it had invaded his lips.

And maybe he'd know about Baek.

Someone there would. That was for sure.

* * *

The plane journey had been too long and too uncomfortable. Despite twisting his body in a variety of positions, and even clearing his mind of all thought, Hwoarang did not sleep for a minute. Fortunately, Hwoarang did not have suitcases to wait for as he gratefully exited the plane. All his belonging were happily squashed inside his backpack, which hung loosely from one arm as the red head attempted to stretch his legs as he walked, without making too much of a scene. The Korean martial artist released a stressed yawn, only realising that he hadn't used his hand to cover his mouth after the yawn had stretched his lips.

It also wasn't long before Hwoarang had given up trying to read the English directions, telling him where to go. What he did understand, which wasn't a lot, was blurred by his tired eyes, and the rest just didn't make sense. So he took the easiest and childish option, and followed the glowing arrows.

Fortunately, the arrows lead him outside. Unfortunately, the bodies of the sweaty and irritated tourists kept bumping into him. To Hwoarang's surprise, outside of the airport, there were stood several of the men resembling the one who had come to his door step, all holding up white signs with names on. His eyes scanned a few.

Nina Williams. Paul Phoenix. King. No Kazama. But he just had to be there. Or at least Hwoarang thought so.

Hesitantly, he approached the man who held the small piece of paper bearing his name.

"Are you Hwoarang?" He said in a smooth, deep voice.

"Yeah, I am." He attempted his best English. "How did you know I was coming instead of Baek?" The other man went silent. The Korean sighed, knowing that verbal English was a lot more difficult than what he'd read. Plus he'd only practised ti with Baek. It must of sounded something like 'Hoov diad yuh kno i vas koomin inteead uf Baek?' It took the other man a few moments for it to clear it in his head.

"You said Baek was dead. So we got the next best Taekwon-Do artist. Now follow me." The red head decided to avoid any further conversation and obediently followed the large man's steps, practising and mouthing the pronunciation of the words carefully to himself. They stopped outside a row of black limousines, to which Hwoarang's sleepy eyes suddenly widened. He had only ever seen a limo once, nevermind rode in one. So when the door was opened for him, and the large man pointed for him to get inside, Hwoarang found himself getting excited.

His hands ran over the expensive leathers of the seats and he smiled, having never realised that a car could be so big. He excitedly peered out of the window as the images became blurred and passed quickly. Only then did he actually realise that it was him, Hwoarang, in Mexico, and going into the Tekken Tournament. He grinned, then laughed, and collapsed on the seats.

* * *

"Sir, we're here," Hwoarang opened his eyes and looked at the face above him. The hat and worried expression told him it was the limousine driver, and his position on the seat told him that he'd fallen asleep. He was surprised, the last he remembered was showing extreme joy at his current position, and now, he was asleep.

"OK," he said faintly, taking his bag from the floor and crawling from the taxi. "Can I ask you something?" Ah, this guy was a little better at understanding his own language.

"Yes?"

"Do you know if there's a Jin Kazama present?" The friendly face of the other man frowned, going into obvious thought.

"Kazama, now I knew someone by that name. But a Jun rather than a Jin. Maybe it's her son. If her and Kazuya did have a son, maybe he'll be here." The man laughed, to which Hwoarang laughed to. Or pretended to, anyway, all that happened was that a lot of names were thrown at him and a 'maybe'. Hwoarang hated maybes.

He looked around him at the crumbling ground. What a good place to hold a tournament, he thought with a smirk, turning completely round until his body faced a very large building. It looked new, perfect. Like one of those office buildings, just covered in glass. It looked like it had just been transported to this hell hole from an industrial heaven. He noticed several more limousines parked outside it, and a young woman getting out of one, smacking away the hands of the limo driver when he tried to open the door for her. She didn't hesitate about stepping through the large glass doors, and it didn't look like anyone was coming to get him, so Hwoarang decided to casually follow her. The automatic doors provided an easy entrance, and a very happy receptionist greeted him with great enthusiasm and an almost genuine smile.

"Welcome to the Mishima Co-operation Hotel. You are here for the Tournament, am I correct to believe?" Hwoarang nodded and ran a hand through his hair, not quite expecting such enthusiasm from a hotel owner. "Yeah, my name is Hwoarang." The man nodded and grinned again, clicking away on his lap top computer and then pressing a key into Hwoarang's hand before he could react any further.

"You are on the second floor and your gym can be found through your bathroom."

"My gym? I have my own gym?" Hwoarang was sure he misunderstood. What idiot gave him his own gym?

"Yes, it's to stop any disagreements between the participants." The receptionist smiled at Hwoarang's obvious surprise.

"Well, uh, cool. Thanks!" Hwoarang decided to take the stairs rather than the lift, he never trusted lifts he wasn't used to. It was a paranoia thing. He got it from Baek. The Korean attempted to look at the different participants (he'd managed to work out which ones were actually participants from their gee's or muscles) and found himself impressed... and nervous.

But he wasn't there to win, he told himself as he opened the door, he was there for Baek. And to beat Kazama.

The red head's jaw almost literally hit the ground as he stepped in the room. His little backpack fell to the floor as he looked around in amazement. The hall was bigger than his apartment! He stepped into the living room carefully, mouthing a gentle 'fuck,' as he collapsed on the rich leather couch. Everything in the room seemed to cost over a hundred dollars, while in his and Baek's flat, there was barely anything worth that. But they had something which was worth a lot more.

Friendship, trust and love. He knew that he could never find anybody that could make him feel so... wonderful, so complete. But this was for Baek. Hwoarang jumped to his feet and walked through the bathroom (amazed at the white marble) and into the gym, shaking his head in amazement before bursting out into hysterical laughter. He raised his arms in a 'yes!' motion and was quick to change into his gee, and for the first time since Baek's death, began their usual routine.


End file.
